


clockwise

by monomania



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe — Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista Victor Nikiforov, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Introspection, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Pre-Slash, References to Depression, Slow Burn, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 16:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monomania/pseuds/monomania
Summary: Autumn-brown eyes finally search for Viktor’s, and although the man always holds himself with an unchanging grace, his smile is permanently uncertain. Hesitant. It makes Viktor wonder what lies beneath such a contradicting surface, and it easily turns him into the main object of his interest, both inside and outside working hours. Months ago, he allowed himself to be caught under the man’s effortless allure, and soon enough his curiosity had morphed into full-blown crush.(Acrush.God, what is he, fifteen?)___________In which Yuuri goes to the On Ice! Café for the coffee and stays for the muse, whereas Viktor wishes he could settle for (finally) learning The Customer's name.





	clockwise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady_Ley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ley/gifts).



> this a gift for @Lady_Ley, prompted by the Victuuri Summer Loving event! i hope you enjoy this!!! (i also drew a little something for it; you can check it [here](https://odinbytiye.tumblr.com/post/178116372018/you-know-you-should-allow-yourself-a-chance-at)!) <3 one of the available plot bunnies given by ley was a coffee shop AU, with barista!viktor sporting a crush on customer!yuuri, and i just couldn't resist. :>
> 
> it was really fun to write this if you ignore my emotional meltdowns, by the way. so BUCKLE THE HECK UP, MY DUDES, coz it's about to get real corny in here. especially since this wasn't beta'd *sweats nervously*
> 
> also, if you're reading this i love you. that's me breaking into your house to drink all your coffee. but with love.

_Time may be an illusion,_ _  
_ _But it is the most beautiful of all;_

 _An alignment of stolen moments_ _  
_ _And seasons that fade and bloom._

 _Candid, unassuming, adoring —_ _  
_ _Just for you, and me._

__

Viktor bites down his lower lip, but finds himself ultimately unable to hide his simple content after reading the poem—left on the back of a seat in the train by a singular stranger, as it is the custom on every Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings. A smile flourishes and spills from the corners of Viktor’s mouth, and although he’s most certainly being stared at by the people sitting nearby, it doesn’t keep him from echoing the beautifully crafted words inside his head; reading them again, as he always does.

Turning the small, azure-blue sticky note in his hand, he observes the three-digit number written down at the very bottom: seven-nine-four, and it’s no wonder he’s been finding these for months on end, sowing fleeting happiness in such a simple gesture. The poems aren’t made for him by any means, but the man still rushes to the third wagon at all the wordlessly scheduled mornings, takes the fourth seat by the window to his left, and delights himself in collecting the fascinating shards of an imaginative mind that is unfortunately unknown to him.

The author has never put a name at the end of their soft-spoken words, but it doesn’t take a graphologist with a magnifying glass tending to the looping cursive to guess this person has a delicate and charming soul. The customary carefully-drawn paper crane at the very end, which is the closest thing to a signature Viktor is likely to ever get, is also a good indicator of this. He almost wishes his romantic streak wouldn’t see the mysterious nature of said poet as something so exciting, sickeningly sweet, because at the end of the day it always comes down to a swift battle of him against his nagging curiosity.

(Curiosity which, realistically, never really wins. Viktor enjoys the thrill of being left to wonder, and sees the unknown as something alluring rather than uncertain, let alone terrifying—especially when there are no expectations to be crushed. He doesn’t pretend to make assumptions on this person’s character; on their likelihood to be a hideously famous writer coincidentally catching the same train as him, or some crushingly handsome journalist that just so happens to be a superhero. Viktor might be a romantic, but he is not an idiot.

…Despite the popular opinion.)

He gingerly folds the note, storing the poem in his breast pocket. _Closer to your heart,_ he can almost hear a few of his co-workers say, and the brisk thought is what actually reminds him of getting off the train at his usual stop. Four blocks down and no time to waste have Viktor thanking the chilly breeze of the daybreak, especially considering the oddly warm temperature as of late. He turns the first corner just before reaching the front of a vaguely elegant, modest two-storey building at the end of the main street. The alley is distinctly spotless, and Viktor is already fishing for the keys in his back pocket through muscle memory alone.

Facing the small side entrance of the parlor, he makes quick business of the lock, breathing happily into the permanent scent of coffee and the muted artificial undertones of air freshener, and marches to change into his working clothes.

Georgi, the manager, arrives hot on his heels. Together they arrange the chairs at the indoor sitting area, and as he leaves to meet the delivery person of their foodservice supplier at the back door, Viktor puts on a pot of coffee and switches the storefront lights. A sleepy Sara arrives shortly after, disappearing into the narrow kitchen at the back, likely to make her own preparations for the long hours ahead of them.

Five minutes shy of the set start of their business day presents with the Wednesday special, written in stylized lettering on the chalkboard at the back wall, as well as a day’s worth of goods meticulously positioned at the showcase.

Viktor tops off the cash register, and at punctually seven o’clock, the _On Ice! Café_ is open for customers.

The morning rush turns making conversation an impossible feat, and the fact they’re short a barista for an entire week doesn’t help. But Georgi takes the clients’ orders with practiced ease, and Viktor tends to making their drinks in a timely fashion; the big line forming at the front rapidly reducts and finally disappears as customers either take their preferred seats or grab their items to-go. A few hours tick by in a blur and once the rush has died down, they finally have half a mind to look at each other without the plastic smiles or _An espresso and a Vienna with extra cream, coming right up!_

Still, something has Viktor on edge today. Almost like a gut feeling.

Even when Georgi starts whining about his most recent girlfriend-turned-ex, with no Mila in sight to cut off all the wailing and a very uninterested Sara fiddling with her phone, Viktor can’t bring himself to stop filtering his friend’s words and getting caught up with grinning like an absolute idiot. And he knows precisely why—for it isn’t often that the morning poems linger on his thoughts for so long, as the first hours of work usually have them washed off the shore of his mind until he finds himself back at his apartment, drowned in the evening sky.

This one in particular, however, struck him as something distinctly more personal than the ones already kept under his growing collection, despite the fact Viktor pointedly tends to leave the identity of the mystery writer all by its lonesome more often than not. Their words resonate with romance like skipping stones against the surface of an infinite lake, leaving ripples in its wake; but it also speaks of passion in a way that transcends human connections. A sentiment focused in oneself.

Viktor thinks of craving and stagnation. His lack of enthusiasm directed to most, if not all things. _Time may be an illusion,_ he recalls, bittersweet. Again and again. And the smile stretches his mouth into a thin, heartfelt line. _Time may be an illusion. But it is the most beautiful. Beautiful. Of all_ —

A series of enthusiastic slaps against his arm shakes him off of the reverie and render Viktor to a marginally scandalized state. He sends an accusatory glance to Georgi, who has not only stopped moping around, but also seems preoccupied with ignoring his indignation altogether.

“He’s here!” he shriek-whispers, with a slight misuse of his Manager Voice. “Mr. Turkish Coffee with Cardamom is _here!_ ”

_Oh._

His head whips to the large clock hanging on the wall, first. And surely, it’s ten o’clock.

He then looks at the shop’s entrance, second.

(Dark-green dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, khaki skinny jeans, dress shoes, an unusual set of black-framed glasses, and the familiar complementary watch. He isn’t wearing a tie today, and Viktor counts his blessings as he notices that the two top buttons of the shirt were left to their own devices, allowing a view to a set of angular collarbones as well as the pale hollow of his throat. His lingering eyes dart back up with only a shadow of alarm, but he’s well past guilt.

Viktor feels exhilarated, and although his own state of underdress should be infuriating, he’s frequently grateful for it; makes it so he doesn’t have to worry about so many things at the same time. _‘Your dumb, pretty face makes up for it,’_ as Mila once so eloquently put it. Plus, it’s not like the uniform Mrs. Baranovskaya had put together was particularly unflattering. In all honesty, for all of The Customer’s twice-a-week visits to the café, Viktor sees the work of his boss’ ex-wife as nothing short of his saving grace.)

Viktor can already smell the spicy, nutty scent of the cardamom seeping into the coffee. Yakov had insisted on bringing unique options to the table, which was precisely why they had so many types of beverages, add-on alternatives and varied pastries to go with it all; a fact that he is undeniably grateful for, especially if attracts intriguing, charming strangers to their small establishment.

He’s a little disheveled today, a few strands of raven falling off the gel that preserves his usual hairstyle, and Viktor wonders if the wind has picked up outside.

It does add to his general appeal, though, and Viktor forgets about poems all that once.

Even before the man gets a chance to reach the counter, sheepishly checking his watch at least twice on every single visit, Viktor can hear Georgi storming euphorically into the kitchen, and subsequently catches Sara poking her head out of the back room in his peripheral vision. They rush back inside, and Viktor could bet all his childhood trophies collecting dust in the spare bedroom of his apartment that they’re already working on his customary order.

Viktor pointedly abandons the pile of coffee cups he’d been arranging, suddenly grateful for Georgi’s quick-thinking on giving them privacy for no other reason than allowing him the man’s undivided attention.

Sporting what might as well be the easiest smile of his entire week, he approaches the counter with meaning, doing his best to abandon exclusively-barista mode as quickly as possible—not like he doesn’t ring up customers, since all employees at the front must be multifunction by design. But with the amount of times a line has been held because of clients insisting on hitting on Viktor at the cash register, to the extremely unnecessary saucy notes he invariably gets among dollar bills, they’ve decided to keep him solely tending the drinks on all possible occasions. Surely, Viktor is an expert at laughing things off; but after a whole day of tactless debauchery, his pleasant countenance starts getting a little crooked.

With _this_ one, however? Well…

He just couldn’t help himself, really.

Autumn-brown eyes finally search for Viktor’s, and although the man always holds himself with an unchanging grace, his smile is permanently uncertain. Hesitant. It makes Viktor wonder what lies beneath such a contradicting surface, and it easily turns him into the main object of his interest, both inside and outside working hours. Months ago, he allowed himself to be caught under the man’s effortless allure, and soon enough his curiosity had morphed into full-blown crush.

(A _crush._ God, what is he, fifteen?)

When he reaches the counter, Viktor voices his most honest _Good morning!,_ not going through the trouble to fight back the urge to smile once the man bows his head shyly, echoing the barista’s greeting with a sliver of his voice.

The way he seems to wear his heart on his sleeve, all the while sustaining such a mystifying demeanor—conspicuous enough even to a bystander—only makes him more interesting. But Viktor refuses to treat him like a curiosity.

Honestly, it’s more like a fascination.

“Will it be the usual? Turkish coffee with cardamom?” he asks, with an elementary breed of satisfaction that, for all intents and purposes, should make him feel at least moderately ashamed.

Which, clearly, it does _not._

He spares Viktor another nod, reaching for his wallet at the same time he says, “Yes, please.”

Viktor beams and rings him up, charging The Customer for his vaguely expensive choice of beverage, which is by now awfully familiar to him.

(Well, him, and any employee who has enough of a spine to tease Viktor about being infatuated—by someone who is very much a stranger to every single person in the room, no less. Alas, he’s largely unfazed by the provocations regardless of what shape they may take; one doesn’t simply exists in the same vicinity as Yuri Plisetsky and crosses off a decade of their lives without developing a fairly thicker skin, if Viktor does say so himself.)

Now, this is the part he hates the most.

Because it’s quick. Too quick. Viktor leaves the counter to collect the man’s order, only to receive encouraging looks and a double pair of thumbs-up from both Sara and Georgi. He tries not to be thrown off by how the object of his silly affections never makes any substantial conversation, never tries anything new from the menu, never has his coffee at the café itself, and rarely humors Viktor’s allegedly evident enthusiasm upon his habitual visits.

It’s a bit ridiculous to keep the bar so low, but he’s been a regular for quite some time, nearly a year, and yet nothing beyond your polite, everyday small talk has transpired between them thus far.

He doesn’t even know the man’s _name,_ Goddammit.

Once he hands The Customer what he’s due, it all unfolds the same as it always does, in the same order. That beautiful smile with only a hint of dimples at his cheeks. A faint blush. The bowing of his head to hide whatever captivating emotions may follow. Clockwise. Chop chop.

“Thank you, Viktor,” he says, turns, and immediately leaves.

The usual.

Sparing an accusatory glance at the name tag pinned to the top corner of his apron, just above his breast pocket, Viktor lets out a wistful sigh.

 _It doesn’t get more unfair than this,_ he thinks, but still prays not to be jinxing anything.

Not a moment later, Georgi and Sara are already joining him at the front, like sharks in bloodied water. Viktor doesn’t have to look their way to know exactly how this will play out: the shit-eating grins on their faces, easier-said-than-done advices at the tip of the tongue; such knowledge fails to appease the strange emotions about his heart, however, and the fact he refuses to dismiss the pair entirely should be telling enough.

“He’s _fascinating,_ ” Viktor provides, not taking his eyes off the front door despite the man being long gone. “I can’t get enough of him.”

“You know,” Sara chirps in, coy. “You should do something about that crush of yours.”

Viktor shakes his head, face settling on a slight grimace. “Don’t I know it.”

The rest is nothing more than routine, as everything always is. Yuri and Otabek arrive for their part-time shift a few hours after lunch rush, with Michele and Emil closing in on their second warning for employee attendance issues. And despite Viktor never asking, decidedly not familiar enough for real concern and truthfully uncaring for the notion of gossip, he’s pretty sure their usual tardiness has something to do with course credits in college; even though Sara looks just as tired on a regular basis, she’s always complaining about her brother and his friend constantly biting off more than they can chew.

After they’re settled for the remaining hours of work, the staff members of the morning shift get ready to leave. Viktor and Georgi walk Sara to the bus stop a few blocks down the café, make small talk until she goes on her merry way, and take off to their roughly one hour and forty-five minutes retreat at the nearest bar.

Whilst his manager and childhood friend indulges in any and all brands of cheap booze that can make him shitfaced the quickest, his soft and wounded sentimentalism bleeding from the most recent break-up, Viktor has a single Blue Hawaii for the entire duration of their arrangement. Two, if he’s feeling in a particularly bad mood.

Georgi would be the one who needs to be walked to the train station this time around—except they have the benefit of living ten minutes away from each other, which grants Viktor the possibility of dropping off his friend at home in the occasion he’s gone a little overboard with the drinks. Fortunately, it doesn’t happen often enough to spur considerable worry, but he really avoids thinking about the state of Georgi’s poor liver a few years down the road.

Back at his own apartment, Makkachin greets him at the door. The pet sitter only comes to pay her company twice a week, and since she’s been alone for the whole day, Viktor ignores his own exhaustion and makes sure to coo at the dog with extra enthusiasm.

He brings her out for a short walk, makes dinner for himself, takes a quick shower and reads the same book a third time for the remaining hours of the day, only retiring to bed close to eleven. Makkachin cuddles him in the king-sized bed. The alarm clock goes off at half past five in the next morning.

Rinse and repeat.

More than his own lack of generalized passion and the seemingly never-ending amount of tactless customers that exist solely to unnerve him further, it is the routine that wears him down the most.

Now, you see, Viktor wears melancholy remarkably well. From the way his clothes fit snugly around his frame to the way his smile will hide just enough; his complexion allows for omission, and the colors that permeate him speak more to lonely winters than to warm evenings shared with friends or family. It is with practiced ease that he conceals his truest emotions. To an outsider, it would be unlikely to assume his life would be anything but simplistic yet enjoyable—a financially privileged background, working more out of sympathy for his uncle Yakov’s business rather than for necessity on itself, a circle of loyal and entertaining friends that engage him in social encounters, and the most endearing and loving dog in the entire world.

And it’s not like he expects a sudden change in the romantic aspect of his life to turn everything for the better, to make the need for the medication that allows him to cope with the shadow over his eyes to suddenly disappear; but it’s still the most heartfelt emotion Viktor has felt in a while, and so he clings to it for dear life.

The poems, he surmises, also tend to help from time to time.

(He can’t find one on Friday, but figures Monday will bring him better luck. Once he spots the sharp edges of a bright-blue note, the tenson leaves Viktor’s body in a haste, powerful and warm. Tender.)

 _And for all the days I dream  
_ _Of silhouettes in the light,_

 _I see a dancer in the horizon_ _  
_ _Behind the stained glass;_

 _And it’s me, pale blue — surely,_ _  
_ _This must be my masterpiece._

__

“You have a car,” Georgi wheezes as he catches Viktor grinning at the piece of paper for the umpteenth time, just as things quiet down at the café. “A perfectly good car, parked in a dark and sad corner of your garage because you’d rather catch the train—for _sticky notes._ You monster.”

Looking at the numbers on the back of the paper, it reads eight-o-three; he’s missed a couple. Viktor just shrugs, mostly because what Georgi says is true, but also in an attempt to avoid coming off too defensively. A sweet, sheepish sort of feeling lodges itself in a corner of his heart, and he refuses to go out of his way to deny the fact a stranger’s notes are part of how he copes with life.

The barista could easily dispute his friend’s argument by pointing out the extra miles that come with the train ride are good exercise, but Viktor knows this is just Georgi being dramatic about things as usual, with the tiniest hint of bitterness for not getting free rides every morning. Even though he always drops by his very first ex-girlfriend’s ballet studio to watch the opening minutes of rehearsals before actually leaving for work, anyway.

(Both are arguably bad decisions in different levels, but they also have a silent agreement on who takes the cake on that one, which is likely the only reason why Georgi presents himself as such an amenable creature for a change; a feat virtually unheard of for any other occasion.)

Moreover, being acquainted as he is with the company he keeps, Viktor knows Mila would’ve given him a verbal commendation on his guile ways, hadn’t a pair of customers decided to glue themselves to the counter.

And proceeded to try to get Viktor’s number. But in a more colorful choice of words.

He isn’t even the one who rang them up at the time they arrived, trusting the notably small influx of patrons to continue for a few more hours, but also too distracted with organizing the fresh set of cakes at the front display to pay them any mind. Mila even manages to look baffled, somehow, and despite her best efforts to deflect their crude comments and invitations alike, they don’t seem very keen on the idea of leaving the place empty-handed. The few customers having brunch at the sitting area crane up their necks in order to tune in with the ruckus, and Mila’s patience starts running a little thin.

Viktor considers grabbing a napkin, scribble down a fake number and send them on their way, hoping to all that is sacred in the world that they’ll buy into it.

It’s been a while since a customer has been this insistent—to the point of turning the redhead at the cash register twice as sour, and making him somewhat uncomfortable with the whole ordeal. Georgi tries to shut them down with some flourish of his own, but it also proves to be a fruitless pursuit.

The barista swallows, fixes his smile and makes to reach for the ballpoint pen at the side table, which seems to buy them just enough time for the next disaster to line up at the crossfire. The bell chimes at the front door, and Viktor blanches as soon as the person’s silhouette merges in with the frantic glance he spares to the clock hanging on the wall.

It’s ten o’clock.

Plum-purple turtleneck, a black suit, dress shoes, no glasses, a golden watch. His hair is unfairly spotless, gelled back to give view to a beautiful forehead.

No tie today, either.

(Thank God for small favors. Viktor appreciates his visits for the fashion show, if nothing else; he doesn’t know the man’s name, much less what line of work would require him to go around looking like a thousand bucks on a daily basis, but he’s certainly not complaining.)

Except he kind of is. _Oh,_ he wavers. _Please._ Please, _not now._

The Customer checks his watch twice, as always, but stops mid-movement before the situation dawns on him, eyes going wide as saucers despite having just bowed his head preemptively, curling in on himself with a vague color of a shy tick. Viktor’s mouth is suddenly very dry, and for once in his life he wishes his crush’s unresponsiveness to his own blabbermouth to be due some sort of hearing problem, if that could only spare him from further embarrassment—but a hot and unpleasant wave of shame hits him in a rush, and Viktor is ultimately left to sulk in silence as the tactless pair of customers giggle and squirm under his vaguely detrimental gaze. Viktor grabs the pen.

But _then._

The inconspicuous heartthrob makes a beeline for the counter, semi-confident strides echoing in the parlor that had withered in an awkward quiet at the heels of the scene unfolding before their very eyes. Trusting the focus of everyone’s incrementally aggravated emotions to scoot over to the cashier as he systematically shoves himself at their side, The Customer bends over the counter nonchalantly, crossing his arms over the smooth stone that covers the top.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were on your break already,” he provides conversationally, smiling in a way that makes the dimples on his cheeks way more pronounced. “How was your morning, my Vitya?”

Viktor might as well be having a fever dream.

His demeanor doesn’t leave room for any other interpretation. The man is giving him bedroom eyes, leaning suggestively over the counter in a way that will be engraved in Viktor’s brain for the rest of his life, calling him _mine._ Had Viktor’s infatuation not been as blatant, he would certainly feel peeved by the whole act. But something about the absurdity of it—from the performance-like body language to the languid, loving expression on his face, slightly stiff and largely misplaced, so different from what Viktor came to know during his recurring visits—makes him even fonder of it.

“It’s been busy, but nothing for you to worry your pretty head over,” he offers back, eyes flickering to the discourteous pair before letting his frame tower over the man’s, tone light but vaguely predatory. “I missed you last night. Catch you at the break room? I’ll be there soon.”

His crush allows his breath to hitch. A break of character. There’s a flutter to his long, scary-dark eyelashes, and Viktor just wants to kiss him already.

The customers that had lingered laugh nervously, grabbing their drinks in a haste. “Our mistake,” they squeak, legs a little wobbly as they rush out of the café as if the shop had been set on fire.

Viktor can relate.

As soon as the bell chimes again, denouncing their departure, The Customer deflates instantaneously. His knees buckle and his forehead comes to rest against the countertop with a _thud,_ the sharp angles of his body framed by the flattering suit jacket nearly sinking to the ground. His ears are a furious shade of pink, and Viktor, well—

He’s still finding some difficulty to regulate his heart rate, to be completely honest.

Mila also has yet to recollect herself, looking anything but unfazed as her jaw goes slack in a joyous sort of shock. Georgi is notably missing, but if the screeching and delayed crashing sounds coming from the kitchen are anything to go by, he likely went to deliver Sara the wonderful news.

When Viktor takes the time to look around and check how many patrons are likely to come file any complaints against them later, surprisingly, he doesn’t find any exceptionally angry faces. Some look miffed, throwing glances of disdain and indignation to the trail left by the infamous pair of customers. A few nod in appraisal for the initiative to save whatever remained of their peaceful brunch break. At one of the tables, he sees a young woman engaging in what seems to be a discreet victory dance.

His savior still hasn’t recovered.

He’s visibly mortified, and the feeling is sort of contagious. Viktor replays the man’s words inside his head, and feels himself blushing under the scrutiny of no-one in particular. Turning to his co-worker, he sends Mila a pleading look, to which she nods enthusiastically and turns on her heels to give them some space.

Viktor clears his throat, doing his best to ignore the jittery feeling clouding his judgement. “Thank you for that, Mr.…?”

The Customer’s head snaps up, big brown eyes blinking owlishly. At once the color placed high on his cheekbones becomes more severe, as if he only just realized he’d never given his name to him in the first place. Viktor will swear on his mother’s grave that ‘endearing’ was absolutely _not_ the first word to cross his mind.

(His mother is alive. She’s a fifty-seven years old woman that harbors a borderline obsession on succulents and makes YouTube videos about crochet. There is no grave.)

He extends his hand sheepishly, posture tense. “Yuuri Katsuki—Yuuri is fine.”

Well.

Viktor can’t say the name is an easy fit.

He knows a Yuri, one much different from the person that stands in front of him from across the counter; a foul-mouthed teenager with a giant heart hidden underneath countless edges of complex emotions, too loud and angry for his own good. That’s the connection he’s always made. ‘Yuri’ meant cruel verbal jabs in everyday conversations as a defense mechanism, tireless perseverance, sharp eyes and an unbearably closed off, yet honest body language.

So, nearly the polar opposite.

Still, Viktor reaches over the counter to wrap his hand around The Customer’s to solidify their greeting. They shake on it and the grip is surprisingly firm, all things considered. When his azure eyes linger, Yuuri ducks his head and quietly retracts his hand. His palm had felt a little rough, with long and cold and bony fingers. But it was also grounding, somehow. And suddenly, something inside him just _clicks._

“I’m Viktor,” he offers, despite suspecting the information to be anything but new.

Yuuri nods amicably, lips pursed in a tight line, and the fact he doesn’t look over to Viktor’s name tag in order to confirm this serves as a strange source of relief; he’d been half expecting him to not remember his name at all, using it only as an afterthought during their goodbyes more out of politeness than anything else.

And yet, here they are.

“Will—will it be the usual today? My treat. As a thank-you for the timely rescue.”

Sharp eyebrows disappear into his hairline, and Viktor finds the mix of confusion and surprise an oddly charming look on him. After a beat, Yuuri swallows visibly, seeming more conflicted than Viktor has ever seen him.

(There’s another squeak at the back, rushed steps that trace further into the kitchen.)

“That would be lovely,” he says with a nod, voice remarkably even. “Thank you.”

Viktor beams. Feeling daring, he offers, “Would you like to have a seat?”

Whether Yuuri is in the middle of his break to his own work shift is unclear, which would make accepting the invitation something very unlikely to happen. But what is there to lose?

With another nod, the man turns on his heels and selects a table for two next to the front display window—Viktor’s third favorite spot in the entire shop—and pulls out a chair for himself. He fidgets on his seat for a few seconds before fishing the phone out of his front pocket. Long fingers dance effortlessly at the surface of the screen and Viktor wonders if he’s texting someone, maybe a manager or supervisor back at his office, or even a friend. A significant other.

Autumn eyes flash to the counter and the barista does his best to look preoccupied, the smell of cardamom starting the sweep sweetly through the parlor.

(Sometimes, having nosy co-workers has its perks.)

Yuuri keeps glancing back at the counter, but he doesn’t seem in a rush to get his drink—rather, his gaze bears a shadow of curiosity, and the very thought leaves Viktor slightly on edge. Jittery. Ecstatic. And like a painless snap of the last string keeping him together, he turns to make his own choice of beverage: one and a half shots of espresso, milk, two pumps of vanilla syrup.

What exactly possess him to be so forward, especially when risking a well-above-average rage fit from Yakov besides a potential rejection from Yuuri himself, has yet to be defined.

He’s just finished setting up a tray with the drink and two pieces of honey nut pie on separate plates when Georgi emerges from the back, Mila and Sara’s heads peeking at the edge of the kitchen door. His friend places Yuuri’s coffee at the free spot on the tray, looks him dead in the eyes and, with his best rendition of the Manager Voice, delivers his punchline: “Go get him, you beautiful animal.”

Viktor bites his lip in order to not burst in a fit of giggles, because honestly, the situation is absolutely ludicrous. From start to finish.

Long strides take him to Yuuri’s table, Viktor grabbing his attention with a smooth movement of his free hand. Pocketing his phone once more, Yuuri offers him a shy smile, but the expression is immediately torn in surprise yet again as the plate with the sweet treat is placed beside his usual order, more so when Viktor arranges the remaining items across from him.

“Excuse me,” he voices, not waiting for any sort of permission or confirmation as he takes the vacant seat at the other end of the small table. “I heard this pastry goes nicely with Turkish coffee. Please try it, if you’d like.”

He only hopes not to chase him away, with this. Regardless of how private Yuuri has been since the very beginning, Viktor was still caught off-guard by his demeanor up close; to become anxious quite so easily was almost like a talent of its own, apprehension spilling out of him in continuous waves.

It would be endearing, if not the slightest bit alarming—Viktor wishes to keep him close for as long as he’s able, after all.

Clearing his throat, Yuuri finally says, “T-thanks.”

_Oh, dear._

Viktor reaches for his drink, which is good invitation as any. His company mimics the motion, shoulders squared and pressed casually against the back of his seat. Hadn’t Viktor just thrown himself as a willing subject of the man’s scrutiny, he would’ve pinched himself for a reality check.

“So,” he quips behind his cup, putting aside the plans to drown the butterflies in his stomach for the immediate moment. “‘Vitya,’ huh?”

Yuuri looks absolutely mortified.

“I’m so sorry,” he croaks back, meeting his eyes in a resolute hold. “I heard the employees at the front call you that, once, a-and thought it would make it— _convincing._ But. I know it wasn’t my place, so. I’m sorry.”

The raw honesty catches him off-guard, the now permanent grin making his cheeks start to hurt. Viktor dismisses his worry with a wave of his hand, silently thanking Yuuri for the excellent ice-breaker if nothing else.

“Don’t worry about it,” Viktor offers. “It did make it look more authentic, and again, you saved me back there. They were being quite persistent.”

Yuuri swallows around nothing, looking slightly more appeased. Viktor purses his lips and cuts a piece of the pie in front of him, trying to not feel smug when Yuuri echoes the motion yet again. He does his best to time the next question with the subsequent string of relaxation to the frown in Yuuri’s features, likely due the heavenly mix of flavors dancing on his taste buds.

“Do you work nearby?” he asks.

It has enough familiarity to indicate Viktor not only remembers who he is and the fact he visits often (in the case the offer to a spur-of-the-moment and totally-not-a-date type of endeavor wasn’t enough to tip him off), but that he also harbors an interest to his personal affairs. Yuuri doesn’t tense up at the heels of Viktor’s seemingly sudden streak of curiosity, but nonetheless refuses to relax further into his chair.

Nearly half an hour later and a refill of their drinks—Yuuri’s treat, this time—amount to more information slipping out of the pair than Viktor could ever hope for, giving the circumstances.

 _A watchmaker,_ he’d said. A family tradition.

Oddly enough, it fits him like a glove. The usual attire doesn’t feel too far-fetched like this, even if it could be perceived more as a go-to for a middle-aged man in the same field, rather than to someone younger than Viktor by a few years. He offhandedly hints at living by himself, too, but Viktor is wary to pry any further.

The man seems very interested in him, though, even if Viktor isn’t particularly proud of his dust-caked trophies on Mathematics Championships as he used to be. Brown eyes glimmer in admiration and wonder, but nothing beats the soft expression Yuuri makes as he scoots over to show off all pictures of Makkachin he has on his phone.

With an unspoken promise to come by again until the end of the week, Yuuri thanks him for the coffee and the ‘good company,’ leaving shortly after their conversation starts to run out and give way to a comfortable silence, white noise filling out the empty spaces. And despite spending what remains of the seemingly endless hours of his shift on cloud nine, Viktor’s day ends up pretty much the same way as it always does: in a bar.

In a swift display of mercy as well as unguarded interest concerning the new aspects of Viktor’s situation, Georgi keeps the drinking to a minimum. He toes the fine line between pleasantly buzzed and slightly tipsy, renouncing his unspoken priority when it comes to crowd the quiet with slurred, bittersweet words of love and admiration.

Today is Viktor’s turn to take the stage, and if anyone were to ever accuse him of gushing over his crush like a highschooler whilst standing _this_ close of his thirtieth birthday, he certainly wouldn’t go out of his way to deny it.

***

It’s like life starts lulling him into a false sense of security, after that.

Despite the development of such astounding proportions, things seem to settle down. Yuuri visits more often, stays for longer. Sometimes he’ll take a seat at the same table he did that day, and more often than not, Viktor joins him for a short break; every now and then there’s dessert, too, but Yuuri’s choice of beverage never changes no matter how much he recommends the other options on the menu. Occasionally, they talk about themselves—silly little things, grazing the surface of an ocean, like what a child version of Viktor wanted to be once he grew up or what age Yuuri was when he first broke a bone.

(It had been his nose versus a soccer ball. His big sister was going professional. Viktor files the information with a sweet smile and a captivating feeling at the base of his spine. When Yuuri laughs or beams hard enough that his dimples show, the warm sensation travels all the way up to his neck, hugging around his throat in a vice grip. He feels it growing like a parasite, attaching itself greedily at a corner of his heart; and beyond the strange urge to indulge in it further, there’s also a tad of apprehension. Really. Because, aren’t crushes supposed to be just that? A crush, and nothing else?)

All in all, he’s just kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But when it actually _does,_ it happens slowly—and Viktor only sees both the current and future repercussions of it after it’s finally gone for good.

There are no more poems.

Early mornings. Monday, Wednesday, Friday.

Nothing.

Viktor’s been keeping on him the very last note he’s found every since the situation dawned on him. Thinking back, he should’ve realized it would come to this; the words had a ring of finality to them, and he chants them over as he makes his way to the café.

 _To all the lucid lights_ _  
_ _Of whatever fate befalls me,_

 _Let the waves strike a sea_ _  
_ _Of softer summers and_

 _Heartfelt futures —_ _  
_ _Before I feel myself erasing._

__

The drawing at the end is a little shaky, and Viktor recalls being left vaguely startled to see the numbers at the back when he found it, showing he’d only missed a single poem despite the intervals in-between being of considerable length. Something must’ve happened to the mystery writer, and maybe it’s precisely _because_ things have started to look up with the object of his affections that he feels so distraught over this detail. Like destiny won’t allow him to have a second and last item on the list of Things To Look Forward To.

And he lets his friends aware of the bitterness starting to coat his bones, hoping to God he isn’t slowly becoming Georgi II.

Mila is the first to arrive for their day of work, lights already on and chairs meticulously tucked in their respective tables as a soft tune rolls from her phone placed at the counter, echoing in the empty room. She’s talking with Sara when Viktor enters the building, their chatty mood rapidly being replaced with curious looks the more he sighs over his personal misfortunes. Once he’s dressed and ready to help on finishing with morning preparations, Georgi is halfway through the main entrance with a wail of his own. Mila turns off her music.

“Are we going to talk about this?” Sara asks.

Viktor and Georgi give each other a _look._ The second man escapes.

“Talk about what?” Viktor shoots back, avoiding her gaze as he fetches a piece of chalk and props himself on a chair near the back wall.

The girls don’t look very impressed.

“Georgi I can handle, but _you_?” she offers, throwing her arms up in the air. “What are you even sulking over? I thought you were supposed to be having a jolly ol’ week, after Prince Charming came to sweep you off your feet. Didn’t even leave any for the rest of us, I tell you.”

Mila snorts and tops off the cash register. Georgi shuffles from the back room with the box of baked treats for the day; Thursday’s special is salted caramel chocolate cheesecake, and Viktor does his best to maintain his calligraphy against the chalkboard at the top as even as possible.

“It’s,” he begins, clearing his throat when his voice threatens to crack midway. He feels silly. A little miserable, even. “It’s not about him, Sara.”

“Let me guess—sticky notes guy?” Georgi butts in, wholly unbothered by invariably defending his status as the one and only Drama Queen.

Sara rolls her eyes, but not without affection, and leaves for the kitchen without another word. Mila follows suit, propping herself against the door frame. As their manager finishes to arrange everything at the food display, Viktor goes to the front to unlock the doors and change the sign at the window to indicate they’re open for business, face warm. It’s a handful of minutes too early to be on the clock, but perpetuating the silence certainly won’t help anyone.

Once all employees are gathered back behind the counter waiting for the first customer to drop by, Georgi nods to himself, voice now mingling with the growing chatter coming from outside.

“By the way,” he says, sounding remarkably hurt. “I’m moving out; too many memories back at the apartment, and Anya’s birthday is coming up. I’ll have to leave you guys to sort a few things out in a few hours, give it or take.”

Viktor frowns. “Yakov agreed to this?”

“As a matter of fact, he did,” Mila answers helpfully. “He said, and I quote, ‘As long as it makes you whine less, knock yourself the fu—’”

The front bell chimes, smiles are fixed, and with the brightest _Good morning!_ they can manage, their day begins at last.

A few comments concerning the previous discussion sneak in-between customers, especially since this particular weekday is most likely the least worthwhile chunk of the week when it comes to keeping the business afloat. Even rush hours are highly subdued, muted, with people accumulating exhaustion from the previous days, not yet sporting the spring to their step brought by the very last twenty-four hours of a business circuit; it feels almost like a limbo, where patrons don’t know what to feel about the routine haze and have only half a mind to nod back to the employees handing their drinks at the front. Brainwashed into a pattern. Systematic. Methodical. Like a clock.

“My building had a vacancy a floor below,” Mila quips with a long exhale, tone slightly accusatory. “Something about the couple who owned it needing more room for a baby, but it _should_ fit your huge, insufferable drama—if you promise to not wake me up in the middle of the night to wail about your mistress, I’ll introduce you to the landlady.”

“She’s not—” Georgi begins, but stumbles over himself and chokes as soon as Viktor elbows him right at the gut. Where it should hurt. A lot. “Um. That would be great. Thanks, Misha.”

Sara drops a frying pan. Viktor snickers. Mila squints.

“Call me that again,” she threatens. “And I’ll shave your head in your sleep.”

Georgi’s face immediately lights up, and although it doesn’t take an expert to deduct there’s a story behind the banter—considering the grossly misplaced reaction—Viktor knows it must be a touchy subject. They’re both smiling, but Mila seems a little sour, so he keeps his mouth shut; he’s been on the receiving end of her threats, once, and it’s safe to say Viktor doesn’t look forward to having soggy socks for yet another week, thank you very much.

Either way, his attention doesn’t linger on them for long. The hour flies by, and soon enough the next customer passing through the door manages to turn the entire day around. Yuuri beams, unbearably bright, dropping his gaze to the watch at his wrist the same time Viktor checks the clock on the wall. _Punctuality at its finest,_ he thinks.

Yuuri also looks more relaxed today. Dark jeans and a white button-up underneath a neat, navy sweater. Dress shoes. A few locks of hair falling beautifully to frame his delicate face. The blue-framed glasses. No tie.

“Hi,” he offers, blushing a teensy-tiny bit, and Viktor is besotted.

“Hi yourself,” and with a pleading glance, Mila salutes them with a flourish that makes Yuuri giggle and his dimples show. She drags Georgi away with her as well, and Viktor wants to cry and thank this woman for every single thing she’s done for him, good and bad, even the minor flooding in his apartment that one time. The wet socks. He suppresses a shiver. “Will it be the same as usual?”

“Yes, please,” Yuuri responds, already reaching for his wallet. And paired with the warm gaze thrown at him by autumn eyes in a vague warning, Viktor doesn’t stop him from doing so. “And could you add something sweet today, as well?”

He hums, counting the absence of the command _to-go_ as the day’s biggest victory.

“Sure thing! What will it be?”

Curiously, Yuuri doesn’t even look at the showcase filled with goods before saying, “Surprise me.”

He’s planned this.

_Jesus Christ._

(It’s such a small, foolish gesture—but it still pries an unguarded smile off of him. Absolutely ridiculous.)

“I’ll bring it out to you in a minute,” he says, gingerly taking the correspondent money offered over the counter, noting the sum of money to be substantially higher than usual to give room for creativity, allowing his fingers to linger in Yuuri’s touch.

 _Ridiculous,_ he echoes.

Yuuri turns, walks to his table, and takes a seat. Viktor sighs wantonly.

“The wonders of ten months of pining, everyone,” Mila says, chuckling softly into her palm as she gazes wistfully at Viktor’s expression; more like she misses the feeling than anything else, a benign brand of jealousy.

Georgi is hot on her heels, turning to the espresso machine to make a drink despite having no other customers waiting at the front. Viktor notes his uniform is already missing, having replaced it with the clothes he arrived on; he’s probably making a drink to himself before leaving for the day.

Viktor lets out a tiny, helpless sound.

“Can you blame me?”

Mila’s grin doubles in size, shaking her head. “You know,” the redhead begins, taking out a tray from the cabinet at the bottom. “You should allow yourself a chance at happiness every now and then.”

That hits him harder than he’s proud to admit, honestly.

There’s always _something_ keeping him from going after what he wants. Mostly himself, in a way or another.

Actually, it’s _always_ himself. Making excuses and coming up with ultimatums he’ll never listen to, wordless conditions people have to meet in ignorance so Viktor may turn things into something other than what they fundamentally are. He’s a collection of what-ifs, too caught up in endless possibilities that will never happen due his own damn fault to realize life doesn’t always have to be so elaborate. The first step should be him coming out of his cocoon of skepticism, and not making plans about what he’ll do when he wins the lottery or finds a literal Prince Charming.

(Oddly enough, he recalls his mother addressing his fear of bugs running wild at his backyard. _‘They’re more afraid of you than you are of them,’_ she’d said. Hesitancy always goes both ways. Glancing back at Yuuri, he wonders if this isn’t exactly the same. That fear. Different sides of the same coin. Viktor sees himself as assertive enough, as someone who goes after he wants—but when was the last time he actually wanted anything? When he _allowed_ himself to want anything?)

Viktor taking a seat across from Yuuri had been excusable on the first day; he had embraced the short straw and saved him from a hairy situation, thus sincere words of thanks from up close were in order. However, anything beyond that was a misstep, not an attempt to make a move. It was just a crush. Yuuri was mystifying. He hadn’t been _thinking._

Mila gives him a knowing look and opens the back hatch of the food display, as if to say, _The floor is yours._ Sara surges from the kitchen and places Yuuri’s order at the tray on the counter. Georgi turns from the espresso machine with Viktor’s own customary choice of coffee.

(He suddenly feels a little bit like crying.)

It’s like having a family, almost. Except he hand-picked this one. Kind of.

“Come on, you can do this. Don’t be such a baby,” Mila nudges at his arm, breaking the spell, snorting when he attempts throwing her a deadpan look. “I _mean._ Why are you even fearing rejection for? You’re gorgeous and in charge.”

“Actually, Georgi is in charge,” he tries.

Georgi gasps, slapping a hand to his chest in faux-surprise. “You’re right, I am,” he then proceeds to affectionately shove Viktor in direction of the parlor, beckoning the flip-up door at the countertop with a warm gaze. “Now, don’t be such a baby.”

Sara cackles as quietly and as discreetly as she possibly can, but with little success. And if anyone were to ask, then no, Viktor doesn’t have any friends. Not one. Especially not them. Why would he? Not a single reason.

Viktor bites the inside of his cheek. “Thanks.”

He crouches down by the showcase of baked goods, lips pursed in a tight line.

It’s not like he’s ignorant of his privileged, well above average appearance. But he’s also had his fair share of equally interesting people hanging out with him for kicks, like they’re in for the ride for the single purpose to admire something pretty. It doesn’t involve any resemblance of integrity or emotion other than physical attraction, and the idea leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He feels like a tool. A beautiful painting hanging on a wall at a grand museum to be appreciated for what lies in its surface, but ultimately never reached out for what really matters. And after one too many years of backhanded attention towards himself, it’s hard to brush off how the ones around him seem to see Viktor strictly as this shallow thing; overwhelmingly charming, yet only a shadow of a person.

He isn’t afraid of commitment by any means, but it feels inconceivable to take the first step to happiness without knowing what he’ll find on the other side. Will it be the type who awaits for a performer, or someone who longs for the person who hides within?

Viktor has never assumed the worst of Yuuri, even if, admittedly, he knows marginally nothing about the man. He is elegant but passive, interesting and inconclusive. The way the watchmaker seems to be permanently walking on eggshells, bright stars twinkling in his doe eyes anytime he spots him from across the room, should be enough of a warning—to deify Viktor is nothing but another way to dehumanize him, just like many others before him had done.

But the feeling that permeates Yuuri feels intrinsically divergent to that. Viktor could recognize the fire underneath his eyes anywhere, and he is appeased by the fact that for once in his life, the visceral reaction that plays on someone else’s face is likely an echo of his own emotions.

God, Viktor _adores_ him.

And he plays and plays and _plays_ this same line of thought inside his head. Constantly. He wishes it could be enough to convince him, but with Yuuri being virtually unresponsive to his uncharacteristically discreet advances, it becomes nearly impossible to craft an amicable way out of the whole situation.

Maybe he’s just incredibly dense. Maybe Viktor should just drop to a knee and ask his hand in marriage before he goes insane—there’s little chance that that particular action could be seen for anything but what it is, in the end.

His hand twitches. _Maybe._

Viktor selects two generous slices of the German chocolate cake, sets them up on separate plates and arranges them neatly on the tray.

Sara pats him on the back. Mila winks. Georgi makes kissing noises and grabby hands at him.

“I hate you all,” he delivers, and promptly leaves them to gasp and laugh themselves into oblivion.

Once he reaches the table, Yuuri glances at the counter for a moment, and then back at him. Caring. Timid.

_‘You should allow yourself a chance at happiness—’_

“Hi,” Viktor croaks out, undoubtedly smiling like an idiot.

“Hi yourself,” Yuuri says, grinning softly at the familiar words, the dimples showing. And he must zone out for a few seconds, because Yuuri _blushes,_ clearing his throat. “Viktor?”

Oh.

“Sorry,” he offers. “Here you go.”

He arranges Yuuri’s order for him, and then his own spot at the other end of the small table. Trying to find a topic of conversation to distract him from the groundbreaking realization that this might be just what he wants to make of his life—hours and hours ticking by in Yuuri’s proximity, from across a table filled with sweets or glued to his side, lingering eyes and soft smiles, tasting the bitter coffee off his lips and washing it all away with the molten chocolate of his eyes—Viktor allows himself to take the man’s appearance in, absorbing the details he hadn’t been able to at first.

“You look more rested today,” he says, and immediately feels mortified by the lack of filter to his own damn mouth.

Yuuri blinks at him, bowing his head shyly as a hand comes up to scratch at the pale expanse of his neck.

“Do I?” he asks, a humored tilt to his voice. “Phichit started giving me rides to work; it’s not every day, but getting a few more hours of sleep helps.”

Yuuri reaches for his coffee for an obvious distraction, still a little embarrassed. Viktor hums, glad he didn’t take offense on the comment. He faintly recalls Phichit being brought up during some of their previous conversations; a friend from college, if his memory doesn’t fail him, which very well could. Harmless enough, but still sparking a meek bite of yet another set of his largely unhelpful what-ifs. _You have a perfectly good car,_ Georgi had said, which was true. Well, then, what if—

“Viktor!” Georgi. Georgi is calling him. Viktor turns on his chair to face the counter that stands a few feet behind him. There are no customers in the shop except for Yuuri. He relaxes his shoulders. “I’m leaving now. Mila set up a meeting with her landlady, so it might take me longer to get back.”

“Sure thing,” Viktor replies at the same time Yuuri says, “Take care!”

The barista turns to blink owlishly at him, to which he simply responds by sticking his tongue out. Georgi lets out a bark of laughter and throws back a _Thank you!_ before leaving for good. Mila accompains the manager to the kitchen, supposedly to pay Sara company and to give some privacy to the boys at the parlor, trusting the chime of the bell by the door to rouse them all back into work mode if needed be.

“You guys seem like good friends,” he comments, using the fork to bring a small piece of the cake to his mouth and _yep,_ Viktor immediately averts his eyes; nice people don’t watch pretty boys wrapping their lips around things. Yuuri makes a soft noise of approval. Viktor squirms on his seat. “How long have you all known each other?”

Viktor reaches for his coffee in an attempt to make swallowing around the lump in his throat slightly easier. Deep breaths. “Georgi and Mila, since childhood. We grew up together,” he provides, looking at the floor with avid fascination. “Sara—at the back—was Mila’s classmate during high school, but warmed up to the rest of us pretty quickly.”

If Yuuri is thrown off by Viktor finally giving names to faces, he doesn’t say anything—chances are he actually bothered to check everyone’s name tags prior to this. And even with so little contact with the rest of the morning staff, let alone with the employees he’s likely never even seen before, Yuuri seems pretty comfortable in the shop. Like he belongs here.

And if that isn’t a dangerous thought, then Viktor doesn’t know what _would_ be.

(Because invariably, despite all the bumps in the road, this is the place he himself feels most secure. Not even his house can be considered _home,_ with the sole exception to that notion being Makkachin. But she can’t exactly be kept at the café without a few dozen Sanitary Inspectors coming to breathe down Yakov’s neck, after all.)

“I’ll try to bring Phichit soon. I have a feeling he would like this place,” Yuuri comments, reticent. “Heaven knows he could use a break from work. And his hamsters.”

Viktor frowns, “That bad?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, preposterous, and it’s all the answer he needs. They drown the parlor in laughter for a few lasting instants, and it feels right.

“I was thinking of getting a pet, myself,” he says, and suddenly his demeanor changes. Almost like Yuuri’s turning to his previous modus operandi, hiding swiftly behind his cup. At some point they both finished their sweet treats, having little to occupy themselves with besides conversation. Viktor swallows. “Makkachin kind of won me over. I’ve been looking into toy poodles, since my building doesn’t allow large animals, and they’re—lovely.”

The last word seems to hold more meaning than it would at its surface. Yuuri looks at him, doe-eyed, and the spell they contain _has_ to be intentional.

To think that in the course of all weeks they’ve known each other up close, sharing bits and pieces of their identity over food and easy conversation, a significant change in character has already accumulated. Enough for Viktor to reconsider some persistent aspects of his life, to find some sense of purpose. Enough for Yuuri, anxious and deliberately isolated, to contemplate an addition to his family; because ultimately, that’s precisely what a dog is. Family. To be cared and to care for.

Viktor brings his drink to his lips, and maybe Yuuri’s nervous habits are drastically contagious, because apparently he’s done it enough that the cup is now empty. Nowhere to run.

“Of course,” he provides, and it’s like his tongue refuses to work correctly. “Poodles are amazing!”

(That’s it. That’s all he’s got.)

Yuuri gives him a pensive look, as if Viktor had just offered him an extremely articulate and compelling argument on how poodles are superior and will rule the world someday. The watchmaker nods, and before long his mouth finally curls into a discreet smile. Viktor files the expression as something precious, as it is customary during his talks with Yuuri. And if he is usually pestered with doubts regarding wanting something out of all of this, Viktor certainly isn’t asking any questions right now.

He opens his mouth to say—something. Viktor isn’t sure. Words are failing him more than ever, it seems. But for better or for worse, a new customer storms into their shop. When no-one immediately materializes behind the counter, the stranger lets out a string of curses, a sharp edge to their voice.

Viktor sends Yuuri an apologetic look and rushes to the cash register; even then the patron remains less than friendly, and after a few harsh aimless words, they demand to speak to the manager while Viktor tends to making the ordered drink. Their face as he informs the supervisor is out is nothing short of priceless, but it somehow amounts to them knocking over the steaming cup (distinctly on purpose) as soon as Viktor places it at the countertop.

The customer lets out an exaggerated gasp, throwing their arms in the air as they raise their voice, “You could’ve _burned_ me!”

Viktor remains silent, keeping a more colorful choice of words to himself, but that only seems to fire them up. Mila surges in a flash, doing her best to salvage the situation. She makes them another drink and offers a free donut, although that presents yet another handful of possibilities on how the situation could blow up on their faces even further. The customer doesn’t seem to catch on that though, entirely too pleased by being tended to by her instead of Viktor, who still remains on watch at the front.

They select a glazed cruller to go with their cappuccino, thank Mila with a suggestive look, and leave after pointedly refusing to make eye contact with Viktor. As soon as the bell chimes again, the redhead beside him faux-retches. He snorts, and her hand comes to pat him on the back after a long pause.

“Where is our manager when we need him, really,” Viktor grunts.

“Brooding over his ex-girlfriends,” Mila answers bitterly, passing him a stained washcloth that had been sitting next to the cash register, hidden from view. “Let’s clean this up, shall we.”

“Right,” he says.

And for some God-forsaken reason, he’d totally forgotten Yuuri was still there.

The man comes rushing and stops across from him, wide-eyed, “Are you okay?”

Viktor feels himself flushing in mortification—he wishes Yuuri hadn’t seen that, but there’s little that can be done about it. He shrugs, assuring the man that it’s common occurrence, which is in fact the truth. It doesn’t appease him as well as Viktor would like, and for a long moment they’re stuck in a rather uncomfortable silence before Mila kicks him on the shin, startling them both out of the grim daze.

“Come _on,_ ” she whines. Sara peeks her head out of the kitchen. Sneaky. “We’ve had a lot worse. Dealing with assholes and stalkers is basically in the job description.”

Yuuri seems positively horrified. Viktor gives Mila a _look_ and she shrugs back at him. With a resigned shrug, he offers, “Well, at least there’s a few charming regulars every now and then.”

The girls stare at him in comical disbelief, although Mila seems particularly proud. Yuuri blinks at Viktor for a split second before blushing to the roots of his hair, unmoving. Sara clears her throat, hooking the redhead by the arm in order to drag her to the back room.

“We’ll give you some privacy— _behave,_ ” she bargains.

Not a second later, they hear Mila shout, “And clean up that mess, will you!”

Viktor doesn’t take his eyes off of Yuuri.

(He always considered himself a man of winter, but Viktor might have to hand his title over to the company he now keeps and cherishes. Yuuri would look stunning in the snow, he thinks. Blushing softly underneath the shelter of his coat. Specks of ice dotting his long eyelashes, inviting. A beautiful raven in a world of white.)

A few things happen in succession.

Yuuri’s expression wavers, uncertain, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he swallows around nothing. His lips are pursed in a tense, thin line, and although the bashfulness seems to subside rather quickly, he still doesn’t meet Viktor’s gaze. Keeping his eyes glued to the mess of coffee and milk drying over the counter, Yuuri unbuttons the cuffs around his wrists, rolling the sleeves both of his sweater and dress shirt up to his elbows. Without being prompted, he reaches for the washcloth on Viktor’s hand, who immediately raises his arm in reflex.

“No, no,” he says, laughing against his better judgement. “I can’t possibly accept your help! You’re a customer.”

Yuuri gives him a wry smile, “And you got in trouble because you were sitting with me. So.”

Uh.

“That was because I wanted to,” Viktor counters, matter-of-factly.

If anything, it hurts a bit that Yuuri would even consider otherwise—and yet, that’s precisely what his grimace tells Viktor. An emotional and sharp brand of skepticism.

“Do you do that for every ‘charming regular’ that comes by?”

“Only the well-dressed ones that happen to be particularly acquainted with the anatomy of a watch,” he says. Yuuri finally looks up to glare at him, the blush hiking up to the tip of his ears. He steps closer to shove at Viktor’s arm, but not without affection.

At this point, he’s pretty sure he’s gone delusional.

Unfortunately, the dam is broken shortly after. A single glance to the clock hanging high on the wall has Yuuri blanching considerably, not an ounce of color left to his face, and before Viktor has any chances to ask if he’s feeling sick, the man runs a thousand variations of an apology through him, leaving in a haste with promises to be back tomorrow.

Probably late for work, then.

The barista bites the inside of his cheek, virtually unable to feel miffed for being interrupted, much less with the day’s brusque turn of events. There was no substantial information exchanged between them, no critical moment where they had to passionately cling to each other as explosions went off at their backs, no dramatic reveals of a nonexistent superhero identity. But it felt like a turning point nonetheless. Soft and real.

Viktor breathes in slowly, deeply, and realizes he no longer feels numb.

***

At some point, Georgi calls to inform them he won’t be back for the day.

It’s awfully strange to have another significant break to his routine, since he also won’t be available to go out for drinks with Viktor. It doesn’t feel unpleasant per se, but he’d been kind of looking forward to talk about what happened today, to unveil the closeness he experienced, and maybe try to understand where his feelings stand. Yuuri has brushed him off enough that Viktor’s left hesitant to push any other boundary; to feel confusion at this age is a little disconcerting, but he holds on the single certainty that lays bare to him: Yuuri is someone he wishes to be close to, in whatever shape or form.

With Georgi missing and no-one to share his thoughts with, Sara and Mila too preoccupied with their own studies to lend him an ear on a weeknight, and the other _On Ice! Café_ employees not nearly on close enough terms to volunteer for the trouble, Viktor decides to leave work and shuffle straight to the train station. It turns out to be over a whole hour earlier than usual, and he wonders if Makkachin will be pleased with it.

Maybe he should skip drinks more often, or—well, guess he won’t really have to. Not if Georgi actually moves out of his current apartment, which would make accompanying him home on foot nothing short of illogical. He only hopes his friend won’t force Mila to take his place on their arrangement, since she probably has better things to do other than watch over a sad, drunken bastard.

He gets on the train, walks to the third wagon, and prepares to sit at the fourth spot by the window in the left column. There’s a soft gasp coming from his usual place, though, and only then Viktor notices someone has already taken the seat.

And it’s _Yuuri._

“What,” is all he can say, because _what—_

“Fancy meeting you here,” the man delivers rather restlessly.

Looking around, he springs into action before Viktor has a chance to recollect himself. The double seat behind them is free, and Yuuri beckons with his hand in a silent invitation.

“I can’t believe this,” Viktor says.

“You think _I_ believe it?” he throws back with a short laugh, and the lack of response has Yuuri taking the initiative and claiming the spot by the window, leaving the one in the corridor vacant for him instead. “I’m—ah. Sorry about this morning. I had an appointment and was running kind of late.”

“Oh, no! That’s perfectly—”

And then. And _then._ Viktor nearly drops his bag to the dirty floor, because right where Yuuri had been sitting, at Viktor’s usual place during the mornings, facing the ugly train chair in a spot where the sun can’t reach, is a sticky note.

He doesn’t get to see what sort of expression Yuuri shows, since he’s immediately scrambling on his feet to reach for the piece of paper. Once Viktor snatches it to himself, ungracefully, his company makes a vaguely incriminating sound. He barely registers any of it.

 _Happiness can be found_ _  
_ _As a myriad of minutes —_

 _Scattered about life,_ _  
_ _And never quite a destination;_

 _But oh-so-precious,_ _  
_ _Even as they fade._

__

The sentiment behind it is akin to being pulled apart, thread by thread.

Viktor doesn’t wish to admit it, but he’s missed this. The act of finding a clandestine poem on a train, of sharing with himself the emotion that springs from the words that are kept a secret from the rest of the world. He swipes his thumb over the words, and when he realizes the ink has yet to dry completely, traces of black smearing over the paper and onto his skin, the air is briskly knocked out of him.

He turns to Yuuri, and the golden light of the falling sun frames him painfully well. Strangely, shock is a common look to him, but it fails to render him any less elegant.

(Swiftly, it also dawns on him that, whoever this mystery writer _is,_ they are well. Nothing bad happened. A change of schedule, if nothing else. It relieves more weight off of Viktor’s shoulders than he’s proud of, and as he takes his sweet time to absorb the wonderful sight Yuuri undoubtedly makes, he feels amazingly befuddled. An attack coming from multiple directions.)

“Say,” Viktor begins, softly. “Did you see who left this?”

Yuuri blinks. “Pardon?”

He finally takes the seat at his side, showing him the small, azure-blue sticky note. Viktor presses softly at the very edge, just to make sure it’s real, not fully understanding the reasoning behind such a visceral reaction to the event. He’s careful not to smear more of the ink, or to cut himself with the sharp corners of it. Pursing his lips, he glances up at Yuuri.

“I’ve been finding these for a while—have a modest collection back at my apartment, too,” he offers, fishing his bag for the last poem he’s found before this. It’s a little crumpled, but otherwise intact. Yuuri stares at him, eyes the size of dinner plates. “I was wondering if you caught the culprit, is all.”

There’s a tinge of humor to his voice, but the expression dancing across the watchmaker’s face indicates anything but. _Culprit,_ he’d said, and that’s exactly the vibe Yuuri gives off at this precise moment. Like he’s guilty of something.

Viktor has never considered himself a paragon of caution, but this entire situation raises just about all the red flags inside his head.

“Yuuri?” he calls, uncertain.

The man’s eyes shoot to the poems on his lap, then back to him. His gaze repeats the trajectory a few times, mouth opening and closing uselessly, eyebrows pinched in a deep frown as if he’s trying to articulate the most complex string of thoughts that have ever dared to tangle at his brain. Viktor waits patiently for Yuuri to come to a conclusion he’s satisfied with, so as long as it provides him with an answer. Even if it costs him a lost stop on the ride home.

Pressing his lips in a tense line, Yuuri sighs deeply through his nose, meeting his eyes at last.

“I’m sorry,” he says, open and guileless. “That was me.”

Viktor blinks, going stock still. A rush of variant remarks are suddenly stumbling at the edge of his mouth, but the only thing he can offer back is yet another brilliant “What.”

It doesn’t even sound like a question. Probably because it isn’t, since he just can’t bring himself to make sense of such a simple thing.

Yuuri still looks remorseful. Of course he does.

A few beats roll by. In an act of mercy, Yuuri reaches for the messenger bag resting on his lap, searching around for something until he pulls out a block of sticky notes with only a few immaculate pages left to tell the tale. The same color and everything.

“Oh,” Viktor says, realization coming to him as if that had been the last straw.

“I’m sorry,” he echoes himself, voice going a little hoarse. “It wasn’t my intention to—to _deceive_ you, or anything. Not for a single second. I didn’t even know you took the same train as me, before today. Before right now. And…and—”

“You’re rambling.”

Yuuri shuts his mouth with a comical sound, but seems otherwise relieved to see Viktor’s lips stretch to a silly, unguarded smile. He isn’t mad, and he tells his company as much. The man blinks at him, curling in on himself.

“You aren’t?” he asks.

Viktor shakes his head, and with a furtive glance at the digital signage inside the train, Yuuri goes back to turning his bag inside out. A quick search produces a pen, and he starts scribbling away on the blue notepad before giving him a chance to say anything else. Viktor already knows what it is even before having the paper wordlessly handed to him, a phone number hastily written down with the same black, thick pen Yuuri uses for the poems. The barista grins.

“Leaving me again, so soon?” he jokes.

Yuuri smiles a lopsided thing, all soft around the edges.

“This is where I get off,” he explains, apologetic. And with a look at the plaque blinking with the name of the current station, Viktor concludes with amusement that they live only a stop away from each other. “Text me later?”

He sounds awfully uncertain about all of it, but Viktor is still in shock with what such a revelation brings; the realization two core elements that structure his well-being lie solely on one person— _this_ person, is sort of magical, really. Viktor pauses for a second, hoping the look on his face doesn’t tell on his emotions as much, that it doesn’t betray the mildly composed front he’s got going on.

“You bet,” he says lamely.

It goes without saying he needs time to process it, anyway.

Yuuri spares him a wave and gets off the train after it finally opens its doors, turning to look over his shoulder the instant he’s got a couple of steps of distance. Viktor waves back, then, the butterflies on his stomach making a mess out of him. The next stop on the ride is indeed his, and the walk home feels strangely surreal. Soundless. Like he’s lost in a dream.

Once at his apartment, he pays off the pet sitter—the little girl living with her grandmother at the apartment across the hall—lays down his bag near the entrance, and promptly collapses to the floor with a soft _thud._

It’s the impassioned, sentimental sort of exhaustion that catches up to him first, sooner than he ever wished it would come. Makkachin shuffles through the living room to see him, coming to map his cheek with a wet snout. Viktor gets on his back and raises an arm, to which the dog takes as an invitation to get comfortable against his middle. Bearing a reticent expression at nothing in particular, he hides his face against her soft fur, petting her just behind the left ear. Makkachin huffs and whines, inquisitive as she looks at him with her big, dark eyes.

“Long day today, love,” he says. Viktor’s voice makes her perk up, and it only serves to succinctly bare the most vulnerable share of himself to the growing darkness of his apartment. He sinks further into her familiar scent of evening showers and expensive scented wax, the corner of his eyes burning with unwelcome tears. “Long day, today.”

For a long while, he thinks of nothing at all. And Makkachin, the absolute sweetheart she is, does not press him.

It only dawns on him how long he’s been lying on the floor at the very entrance of his house, for no apparent reason than to simply being overwhelmed, after his back starts to hurt. He blinks, and it’s dark. Viktor has undoubtedly missed that insignificant window of time where streets are less crowded and whatever remains of sunlight takes his walk with Makkachin to an optimal level of mutual enjoyment. And now, looking at the small digital clock at the top-right corner of his phone screen, he also notices he’s way off the mark when it comes to dinner time.

Viktor should be having a shower, then books, then sleep. In his current state of mind, to be this decidedly behind schedule irks him more than he’d like to admit—even though he’s always hated this. He rubs at his eyes, grunting at the stiffness on his body as he finally gets up.

Retrieving the bag from the floor and unloading its scarce contents at the entrance table in what seems to be strictly autopilot, he finds the note from the train ride. The phone number.

Yuuri is unfairly adept at fraying his ability to think clearly, stranger or otherwise—although Viktor isn’t sure the nature of their relationship applies to such a designation any longer. Maybe there’s still a part of him waiting for this to be an illusion, a cruel construction; they know little of each other, spent the better part of their occasional coexistence with debatably irrelevant conversation, and started their curious exploration of the ability to do and say and share _more_ with the wrong foot on most accounts. The growing opportunities to display a deeper emotional interest have been easily swallowed and taken up by both of them, but without any resemblance of clarity when it came to their truest intentions.

(It feels grossly unfair to think in such a manner, especially because Viktor isn’t certain of what he wants, himself. He greatly enjoys Yuuri’s company. He finds him charming, fun, witty and intelligent. Of course, the—the self-inflicted gaslighting proves to be a considerable issue, more often than not. But that has never interfered with Viktor’s feelings in any way, shape or form, and if he considers it an obstacle at all is only because he’s truthfully worried.

He wants Yuuri to feel comfortable in his own skin in a way Viktor often doesn’t feel, despite what other people might think; he wants him to ramble about watches and allow for the glimmer in his eyes as he talks about his family to surface wholly unguarded, and more than anything else, he wants him to smile. Candid and in plain sight. Enough for the dimples to show at the hollow of his cheeks, warm and serene. He wants him to be _happy._ Because what Viktor feels is—)

Frustration wells up inside him, and he swallows down a fresh set of tears. Fixing the hold on his phone, Viktor types Yuuri’s phone number on the messaging app. Makkachin bumps her head against his leg, and he wordlessly leaves for the kitchen in order to check her food and water bowls. Maybe heat up yesterday’s leftovers for himself, although something tells him there’s little he could stomach in his present condition, the tension making his whole body retain the strain from using the floor as a first-option resting place.

Different from what he’d pictured at the beginning, his first text is…unremarkable.

“Hi!!!! It’s me, Viktor,” he sends, and resists scrambling to add a clarification. Surely, a _‘From the café near your workplace’_ is entirely unnecessary.

Or so he hopes, anyway.

A response comes startlingly fast, all things considered. Almost immediate, in fact, and Viktor tries not to feel satisfaction as he entertains the thought of Yuuri expecting his message.

“Hello!” it says, and it’s both the most beautiful and the most infuriating thing he’s ever seen.

(He refuses to name this. It’s too early, he tells himself. Too early to be left behind. To be disappointed. But his ever-growing desire to commit to this feeling rouses a constant wrestling inside his head on how he should go about this, because…how does _Yuuri_ feel? Will he ever get to know? Is he even ready to find that out?)

As of now, true to his fashion, the watchmaker downplays whatever transpired on the train. Viktor wouldn’t go as far as saying he’s casual about it all, because the man still apologizes profusely through text whenever he gives off so much as a hint to still feeling shocked over the revelation. But he’s certainly verging the noncommittal, pushing away any merit he deems himself unworthy of.

Which turns out to be the majority of it.

It doesn’t surprise him, not really, and neither hinders Viktor’s enthusiasm as he downright lists all the wonderful thoughts he’s collected about the poems across the multitude of months he has been finding them.

To his absolute delight, Yuuri manages to remain his riveting, timorous self even at such a distance. Viktor doesn’t tell him of how his previously anonymous words have helped him when nothing else did, that they carved an honest smile out of his face at the moments where all he could manage were masks and miserable pretense. He probably _should,_ honestly, but ultimately decides against it. It would become an unnecessary weight on Yuuri’s shoulders, after all.

He can feel the sickness growing inside him, blossoming at his gut mercilessly. Viktor’s aimless nature causes him to recoil before such a brilliant, extraordinary prospect at _living,_ as it often does. _‘You should allow yourself a chance at happiness every now and then,’_ Mila had said. _‘Happiness can be found,’_ the note. The _note._ The words resonate through him again and again the moment self-pity seeks to strike, like clockwork.

A mirror is a wholly unnecessary accessory to efficiently inspect his current state of mind. An emotion painfully familiar to Viktor latches itself around him, taking his expression and presence in its entirety as a rueful hostage until he gathers enough courage to attempt retaliation: _shame._

And suddenly, he’s drained to his very bones, rendered unable to think of anything else but this. How long has he permitted life to pass him by? And for how long would he willingly perpetuate this shadow?

His phone chimes again, screen lighting up at the same time his stomach does a strangely pleasant flip inside him.

 _‘You should_ allow _yourself—’_

Happiness.

There’s an untold number of things he should fix. The way he tolerates seemingly harmless falsehoods about his character to disseminate among the ones that come to know him, the way he indulges in a routine that will eventually drive him insane, the way he pretends not to long for his parents’ time of day, the way he ignores how he needs help and how very tired he actually is.

But Viktor reckons he could start with being honest with his feelings, for one.

So it is with very little regret he focuses on cooking up an excuse to see Yuuri more often—purely for educational purposes, you see, a dispassionate and thorough analysis of his own emotional predicament—and can think of only one thing that could be ever considered _believable._

He recalls how well-rested Yuuri had looked after a particular modification to his conventional means of transportation during the early mornings, and in a leap of faith, Viktor offers him rides both to and back from work; on top of it, to add to the elusion his offer is devoid of any ulterior motives (regardless of how innocent his undisclosed intentions may be), he also extends the invitation to his own friends.

As a surprise to absolutely no-one, they all accept in a heartbeat. The sole exception to that being Yuuri himself, obviously, who takes a little more of exceptionally convincing arguments before finally giving in. What wins him over is, ultimately, the exact twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds of extra sleep he’ll be earning in the process.

(Viktor also schedules an appointment with his old therapist. _And_ calls his mother—she doesn’t pick up; timezones and all that, he tells himself as he leaves her a voice message. Hopeful.)

Monday morning, the barista shoots up from his bed half an hour earlier than usual, feeling more rested than he has in months. Yuuri had given him his address on Friday, and with a brief search on the Maps app on his phone, they both nominated this particular circumstance to be the most ridiculous they’ve ever been in collectively. Because they literally live five minutes away from each other. On foot.

Now, isn’t that convenient?

Yuuri is the first he picks up, too, all smiles and pleasantries with more than an edge of familiarity as he gets in the car. They’re friends, Viktor notes, and the modicum of doubt that eats away at him is promptly thrown away the moment such a detail becomes evident. He hopes this will turn into a common occurrence, specifically since Yuuri can’t drop by at the café every single morning—just because customers decide to give the _On Ice! Café_ employees a break every now and then doesn’t mean he is given the same courtesy.

They smile more often. Yuuri’s laughter is the most wonderful constant.

(The first step has been the most wonderful, with no regrets in sight. No disappointment.

A small amount of fear, still.)

On their second stop, Georgi steps inside, and kindly apprises Viktor and Mila have been appointed to help with his move. Apparently the redhead’s landlady had been elated to find someone for the vacant apartment this soon, and the whole ordeal was resolved within the day. Viktor can’t find it in himself to complain over his friend’s not-quite-request, especially when he mentions all of them will be given rewards for their trouble at the end; Viktor is, unashamedly, all about that moral dessert.

“You can start picking me up with Mila starting from next week,” Georgi provides, vehemently refusing to give up on his surge of kindness to drive everyone to work. “Since I’m moving out this Saturday.”

“Already?” Viktor asks, eyes wide. He nods, excited. “Didn’t you decide on it, like, four days ago?”

“There’s no time to waste!” he says pleasantly.

Viktor reckons Georgi must’ve been planning this weeks before actually mustering telling anyone of his decision, which all things considered, is a very sensible thing to do. Suddenly, his friend’s big, expressive eyes shimmer in delight, and Viktor has only time enough to conclude this somehow won’t end well. Georgi turns sharply to Yuuri, who startles on his seat.

“Say,” he begins, smiling mirthfully. “Do you fancy lending us a hand?”

“ _Georgi—_ ”

“Uh, sure?” he complies.

There’s very little that could be said or done to make Georgi amendable after such an agreement, so Viktor relents to sighing dramatically as the other two shake hands on it.

His manager soon-to-be apartment building surges in the distance, Mila already waiting at the front for them. She gets in the car with an excited squeak and many words of thanks, and Viktor starts driving to Sara’s home before dropping everyone off to their own destinations. They make easy conversation, and it’s safe to say all of them are perfectly enamored with Yuuri at the end of the road.

Yuuri’s workplace is remarkably close to the coffee shop, but that was to be expected, considering the frequency of his visits. It’s only a door and a small display window, built in retro style, pointedly squeezed in-between two other establishments—a modest frozen yogurt business and a travel agency. Yuuri thanks him for the gesture, and with a friendly wave to the horde of significantly more awake people at the backseat, he promises to visit for brunch.

Viktor would like to say _and_ mean he isn’t fazed or embarrassed by his friends’ string of compliments, advices and ungracious commentary regarding his own relationship with Yuuri, but that would be a lie.

Their days go without a hitch; Yuuri visits. It’s very hard to not grow used to his presence, to latch around such a wonderful constant, but Viktor reckons merrily that maybe he won’t have to hold back.

At the end of the week, a moving truck is painstakingly loaded. Georgi has a lot more garbage than everyone initially thought possible, taking the meager size of his apartment into consideration. Nothing from any of his ex-girlfriends though, not even from Anya, which comes as a surprise even to _Yuuri,_ who has only known him substantially for a week’s time. Mila complains all the while regardless, but it’s mostly half-hearted and bearing the sole purpose to pull at Georgi’s leg as much as she can. Viktor and Yuuri play footsies under the table during lunch, surrounded by a diminishing number of boxes and the songs coming off of Mila’s phone.

The new apartment is a little bigger and has an extra room, but Georgi doesn’t say anything about finding a roommate. A few hours later grant the group a sore _everything,_ moderately arranged furniture and an unnecessarily huge order at the pizza place down the street, which is entirely on the host—their _reward,_ as it were, and Viktor feels no remorse as he asks for an entire Hawaiian for kicks. Mila and Yuuri double in laughter until tears start burning at their eyes. Sara finds about the whole thing through text and informs all their other co-workers, who undoubtedly won’t let their manager live it down. Georgi is livid.

Viktor doesn’t recall ever feeling this light.

Back at the car, as he prepares to drive Yuuri home and the other two start their new lives as actual neighbors, Viktor is taken by a strange emotion. Something that tugs at him pleasantly, shaking off the resilient shadows often cast over his heart.

He wants this. Wants it to become part of who he is, more than it already is.

They’ve had plenty of opportunities to speak of Yuuri’s work, both through the messages exchanged throughout the week and during the small breaks on today’s arduous day working under Georgi’s metaphorical whip. Viktor still had been vague concerning the real impact Yuuri’s written word had on his days, good and bad, but it all came crashing down once the man displayed honest, ruthless doubt over his own capabilities and skill. Viktor’s subsequent candor left him befuddled, tongue-tied, a benevolent return to his initial shyness. Confessions of how the poems were at times the only reason he left the house at all had Yuuri visibly shaken, looking at Viktor like he hung the moon and the stars.

Even though the correct statement was, most likely, the other way around.

The fact that particular chunk of their day is what’s put on replay inside Viktor’s head the instant conversation dies down isn’t necessarily worrisome, per se. But it does leave him horrifyingly expectant. Jittery.

Logically speaking, Yuuri always has to be the last one to be dropped off after a long day of work, even if taking the car out of his garage had been exclusively to the man’s benefit at first; and their routine had been as so during the entire two weeks Viktor’s been doing this, with approximately eight minutes and nineteen seconds of being solely in each other’s presence in such an enclosed space. Every day. Sometimes they would talk, and it would feel much like their time together at the café. Sometimes they say nothing at all, revelling the raw, pleasant feeling of merely being this close to one another—much like right now, despite everything else that occupies his mind.

The sun drags itself down the dormant sky, painting it like a canvas of pliable purples and fading oranges. The emotions behind the silence aren’t new to Viktor, who has long found comfort in Yuuri’s _everything._ His affable reticence isn’t an exception, and the only inconsolable thing in sight is the watchmaker’s own building in the distance, fast approaching.

The barista pulls over. Offers him a smile. The man beside him swallows audibly, blush adorning his complexion beautifully.

“Viktor, I—” he begins, and any shadow of foreboding is immediately shattered the moment he finds the right words. “I got a dog.”

“What,” Viktor says, definitely sounding a little bit betrayed, but it’s not a question. “ _What?!_ ”

Yuuri laughs and _laughs,_ dimples showing as he actively squiggles in the passenger seat, wheezing something that sounds suspiciously like “You sound like I just told you I’m pregnant”—which for all Viktor knows, might as well be the truth. Because holy crap, a dog. A _dog!_

“It’s a poodle, too,” he rectifies. “His name is Vicchan.”

Viktor blinks, still a little dazed. “Vicchan?”

His amusement wilts in an instant, a fraction of a second. Viktor’s almost regretful to have asked, thinking that maybe Yuuri’s found offense to the lack of an immediate verbal approval. But then he squirms, blush becoming more severe.

“It’s short for Viktor,” he says, hesitant.

_Oh._

“Oh,” he echoes, feeling slightly lightheaded.

A rush of emotions go through him, flashing in powerful and poignant waves. The realization that comes with it springs a familiar sensation, however, and Viktor blames his own illiteracy on sentimental connections for not being as forthcoming on this particular matter.

The name of the feeling is unmistakable, quivering his very soul to the core. And once he recognizes it at last, it becomes impossible to ignore.

“Would you—” Yuuri begins sheepishly, clearing his throat when his voice fails him. “Would like to come up and say hi?”

 _This,_ he thinks, this feels a lot like it. Like happiness.

Unadulterated and powerful, baring him open like taut coil.

(Love.)

“Yeah,” he offers softly, winded beyond repair as the sentiment of fondness overflows with a smile, bleeding with intent out of his helplessly enamored heart. “Yeah, I would like that.”

And if he overstays his welcome, he’ll blame it on the clock.

**Author's Note:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
>  someone should nominate me to the "making a story with a feel-good ending that simultaneously makes all characters/readers emotionally constipated" award. i probably wouldn't win. but hey, a girl can dream.


End file.
